“Bribes!”
“Yes, bribes. Did you ever see a lean policeman, Margaretta?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never did—they’re all fat as butter, like the sinners in the Psalms. Now, no one need ever tell me that the police are honest, till I see them all get lean with chasing after evil. Now they just stand round corners like green bay-trees, and take bribes.”
Margaretta was silent for a long time, pondering over this new department of thought opened up to her. Then she said, “Why don’t you get the women to leave this hateful neighbourhood?”
“How can they?” said her sister, mournfully, “their husbands work on the wharves. But I mustn’t make you too gloomy. Let me tell you about the heart of the Mayor.”
“You were dreadfully sad just after you went to River Street,” said Margaretta; “was this the trouble?”
“Yes,” said Berty, lowering her voice, “the woes of the poor were sinking into my heart.”
“Poor child—but take your ice-cream. It is melting and slipping down your gown, and the dog has eaten your cake.”
“Has he?” said Berty, indifferently. “Well, dog, take the ice-cream, too. I want to talk—I came out of our house one morning, Margaretta; there were three pitiful little children on the door-step. ‘Children, do get out of this,’ I said. ‘We may have callers, and you look like imps.’”